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IMPRESSIONS 

IN AND JBOUT 

PORTLAND, MAINE 

SELECTED BY 

CARRIE THOMPSON LOWELL 




PUBLISHED BY 

ABNER W. LOWELL 

608 CONGRKSS STREET, PORTLAND. MAINE 



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Copyright 1910 

BY 

Abnkr W. Lowell 



©CI.A268906 



LIST OF POEMS 



The Ground of Kfnship, 

Motherland, 

Casco Bay, 

City of My Love, . 

Portland, 

The First Parish Vane, 

City Hall, 

The Longfellow House, 

The Longfellow Statue, 

The Eastern Cemetery, 

Maine General Hospital, 

Deering Park, 

The Deering Mansion, 

Riverton Park, 

White Head, 

On Cape Elizabeth, 

The Spell of the Shore, 

SoNGo River, 

Sebago Lake, 



Grace Agnes Thompson 

Robert Rexdale 

John G. Whittier 

Caroline Dana Howe 

Abba Goold Woolson 

James Phinney Baxter 

Carrie Thompson Lowell 

Adaletia E. Dyer 

. George E. B. Jackson 

Abba Goold Woolson 

Moses Owen 

Abba Goold Woolson 

Carrie Thompson Loivell 

Edward Clarence Farnsivorth 

Nathaniel Deering 

Margaret E. Jordan 

Arthur D. Ropes 

Henry W. Longfellozv 

John G. Whittier 




FOREWORD 

IHE poems in this little book have 
been selected with the earnest 
desire that they may help to 
deepen the favorable impression 
which our fair City has made on the stranger 
within its gates and on the sons and daugh- 
ters of Portland whose homes may be afar 
but whose hearts are still with us. 

Permission has been obtained from authors 
and publishers for copyrighted poems re- 
corded here. Special thanks are due the 
Youth's Companion and Miss Adalena E. 
Dyer for the verses on "The Longfellow 
House," to the New England Magazine and 
Miss Grace Agnes Thompson for "The 
Ground of Kinship," also to the Revell Pub- 
lishing Company and to Robert Rexdale for 

" Motherland." 

Carrie Thompson Lowell. 

Portland, Maine, March, 1910. 



THE GROUND OF KINSHIP 

( With apologies to the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, who claimed 
for Cambridge, Mass., the palm as " Nicest place that ever was seen.") 



Know old Maine ? You bet I do. 
Born there? Don't say so ! I was, too, — 
Born in a farm-house with one-pitched roof, 
Weather-worn, if you must have proof — 

Pine-Tree Gulch. Ah ! Let me beg 
You'll search from Key West to Winnipeg, 
No saner childhood' 11 you find aloof 
Than under an old Maine farmhouse roof. 

Nicest place that ever was seen, — 
Rugged old hills and pastures green, 
Rivers a-plenty with woods between. 
Sweetest spot beneath the skies 

Soon as apple bloom perfumes rise ; 
Summer in Mame is time that flies. 
Charming your mouth and ears and eyes. 
With treasures of shore where ocean lies. 

And bird-trilled groves and berry pies 
And myriads else that Yankees prize. 

Grace Agnes Tliompson. 



MOTHERLAND 

To-night across my senses steals the perfume of 
the pine, 

Oh, sweeter far to homesick hearts than draughts 
of fragrant wine ; 

Again upHft the seagirt isles where sylvan beauties 
reign, 

And dreams of thee come back to me, Oh, Mother- 
land of Maine. 

Thy glories gleam before my eyes, as in the olden 
days, 

I see again the labyrinths of Casco's lovely bays ; 

The sea gull's cry rings in mv ears, as o'er the 
foam he flies. 

And memory sets her signal lights along the dark- 
ened skies. 

There's laughter in the swaying pines, there's 
music in the gale ; 

Each ship upon the sea tonight is some remem- 
bered sail, 

And peering through the flying mist, that holds 
me in its spell, 

I cry, "What ho! O mariners!" the answer is, 
"Farewell !" 

Like phantom ships before the wind, they to their 
havens flee. 

While I a wanderer must drift upon a shoreless 
sea. 

But while the fires of being burn w^ithin the con- 
scious brain. 

My eyes will seek thy far-off coast. Oh, Mother- 
land of Maine. 

— Robert Rexdale. 



CASCO BAY 

Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer, 
Does. the o;-olden-locked h'uit bearer 

Through his painted woodlands, stray. 
Than where hillside oaks and beeches 
Overlook the long, blue reaches. 
Silver coves and pebbled beaches. 

And green isles of Casco Bay ; 

Nowhere day, for delay, 
With a tenderer look beseeches 

" Let me with my charmed earth stay," 

On the grain-lands of the main-lands 
Stands the serried corn like train-bands, 

Plume and pennon rustling gay ; 
Out at sea the islands wooded. 
Silver birches, golden hooded. 
Set with maples, crimson-blooded. 

White sea-foam and sand-hills gray. 

Stretch away, far away. 
Dim and dreamy, over-brooded 

By the hazy autumn day. 

—John G. Whittier 



13 



CITY OF MY LOVE 

The heavens unfold to Casco's Hfted wave 
Their richest gems of amethyst and gold, 

Where, blazoned like some grand old architrave, 
The broad horizon bounds its realms untold. 

O sunny bay ! upon thy sheltered breast, 

Whose deeps unknown are throbbing evermore. 
Swift sails are borne like white-winged bu'ds, to 

test 
Yon broad Atlantic-tides, from shore to shore. 

O'erarched with gUn-y from resplendent skies, 
Bramhall and Munjoy, as twin-sentinels. 

May overlook our growing enterprise 

From east to west, and hear our sweet-toned 
bells. 

One sunny slope is fresh with mountain air ; 

And one lies broad to islands manifold. 
Where Nature hangs her summer pictures rare 

Framed round in sunshine, as with burnished 
gold. 

But Deering woods, of which Our Poet sung, 
Hath cultured lawns, and broad green avenues. 

Where, summer eves, glad music-echoes rung 
And fountains played and scattered mists like 
dews. 



15 



O City of our love ! Like some fair queen 
Whose kingdom hath a beauty all its own, 

Blue skies, blue waves, together meet serene 
As canopy and footstool, for thy throne. 

Love we thy name — thy grand old elms — thy 
soil — 

Thy loyal people as a part of thee. 
Whether we meet in common ways of toil. 

Or where proud intellects hold high degree. 

And in thy homes, fair City of our love, 

Some dear hearts give us of their warmth and 
light. 
And gentle words we gather, as the dove 

Brought Hope's leaf-message in her homeward 
flight. 

Fair be thy skies, Star City of the East ! 

With honors crowned, as with hue jewels set. 
Thy loveliness undimmed, thy strength increased, 

Look upward thou to heights unmeasured yet. 

— Caroline Dana Howe. 



16 



PORTLAND 

From East to West, throughout her broad 
domains, 

Swept by their lordly rivers flowing h'ee, 
In lake-strewn forests and pine-mantled plains 

No spot so fair to see : 
Within her far-famed bay she sits serene, 

Of all Maine's cities the acknowledged queen. 

Like posted sentinels in outer courts, 

Her guards and watchmen stand on many a steep, 
That she may dwell secure ; three frowning forts 

Train their long guns in menace o'er the deep, 
With call imperious challenging her foes ; 

Scanning that ocean-path by night, by day. 
The old red tower upon her hill -top knows 

What ro\'er seeks her bay ; 
While headland lights, like torches o'er the foam 
Of darkling waters, guide her wanderers home. 



Not all the ships that in its haven ride 

Can take one native charm from Casco Bay ; 
Dark, plumy forests swing above the tide 

On island shores, where still, in careless play. 
The wild duck floats, the lonely plover calls ; 

In wave-washed nooks, by human eye unseen. 
The glistening kelp forever lifts and falls ; 

And silvery birches lean, 
In sunny coves, above the hard, white sand, 
Where glides no skiff, no rover seeks the land. 

When home-bound from the deep, a tiny shape 
On dancing waves, the fisher's boat is seen 



17 



Rounding the eastern shores of that broad cape 
Named at her death for England's mighty queen, 

How welcome to his gaze each curving line 

From Scarboro's river-points to Barberry creek ! 

At Spurwink's mouth the long, white beaches shine: 
Beyond, his glances seek 

Richmond's lone island, on whose farthest edge 

Breaks the wild surf o'er Watts' fatal ledge. 



Near the Two Lights, where dangerous waters 

glide. 

He hears Old Anthony's unceasing knell ; 
Through Portland Roads he hurries with the tide 

Past their white tower, and feels the rising swell 
That rocks the skiffs in Simonton's broad cove ; 

From Preble's rampart booms the sunset-gun 
O'er Gushing' s Point, where erst a village throve ; 

And now the sunken sun 
Crimsons the wave, where gleaming silks outblown 
Once scarfed a sea with priceless wreckage strewn. 

To one who sits upon the cliff afar, 

Noting the waning splendors of the light. 
He moves, a floating speck, behind the bar 

Of vStanford's ledge, and soon is lost to sight. 
Against the lingering radiance of the west, 

With dome and slender steeples ranged a-row. 
The tree embowered city on her crest 

Burns in a golden glow ; 
While warmer tints, that through the waters play. 
Flush the far sails and mantle all the bay. 

— Abba Goo Id Woolso7i. 



i8 




THE FIRST PARISH VANE 

Over the city hangs a mist, 
And the smell of the sea brings a thought of 

storm ; 
About the chimneys the smoke wreaths twist, 
And under the eaves the pigeons swarm ; 
East, north-east, like the finger of doom, 
Stcadilv pointing into the gloom, 
On the' First Parish Spire is plainly seen 
The vane which a century there hath been. 
Sunshine oiveth it not a kiss ; 
Shadows it cleaves like the shadows of death. 

—James P. Baxter, 



19 



CITY HALL 

Adown the busy street we pass where once 
Our city's pride reflected h'om her ciome 
Departing day ; its last bright golden gleam 
Falling on wearied traveller hast'ning home. 

Its simple grandeur tilled our hearts alike 
With joy and veneration. For we saw 
Lpreared in stone, a massive shapely pile 
Keeping its guard o'er order and o'er law. 

Destroying flames have done their cruel work 
Hut from the past, a host of memories rise 
And cling around thy dear familiar walls, 
No more uplifted to the waiting skies. 

— Carrie TJiompson Loi<'eII. 



THE LONGFELLOW HOUSE 

Here's General Peleg" WadswortlVs hat, 

A doughty patriot was he, 
When George the Third uneasy sat 

Upon his throne across the sea. 
Here is the sword the general's son, 

Lieutenant Alexander, wore 
Unsheathed, until the war was done 

Which cut the bonds our sailors bore. 

And here memorials are shown 

Of Henry Wadsworth, young and brave, 
Who made our banner known 

And found at Tripoli his grave. 
Theilagthe -Enterprise" once bore 

Lies here, robbed of its colors bright , 
A cutlass from the "Boxer's "store 

Recalls that deadly naval fight. 

AH these are shown the eager guest 

Whose feet the ancient threshold wear, 
But not for these the pilgrim quest 

Of those who to this house repair. 
The warrior has his meed of praise, 

But here the stranger seeks the shrine 
Of him who sang of love's sweet ways 

With lips aglow with hre divine. 



23 



For his sake does the general's sword 

Receive the homage given might ; 
But mightier is the poet's word 

Flashed from its scabbard for the right. 
All honor to the grandsire brave 

Who fought to make his country free, 
And tender praise to him who gave 

His life in distant Tripoli ; 

But for the bard who sweetly sung 

Acadia's tale of trust and woe 
The home which sheltered him when young 

Shall with love's incense ever glow. 
For him the fame that time defies, 

Till English hearts and tongues shall cease ; 
His harp thrilled not to battle-cries, 

But voiced the sacred chords of peace. 

— Adelena E. Dyer. 



24 



THE LONGFELLOW STATUE 

This sculptured form, 

'Tis but the semblance, 

And still it is he ! 

Amid the busy throng. 

Calmly he sits ; 

Of all that pass along, 

Heedless is he ! 

His gaze is fixed toward home. 

He loved it well, 

And yet he seeth naught ! 

His ears attent 

To catch the rustling leaves 

Of Deering woods. 

But still he heareth not ! 

Well hath the sculptor wrought, 

Making the seeming — real. 

The fiction — fact. 

And, in enduring bronze, 

His very form hath caught ! 

We, living, thee salute. 
Sweetest of bards ! 
Thy voice hath ceased to be. 
Yet through the world 
Excelsior's flag unfurled 
Bears, in its strange device. 
Thy name and fame ! 



25 



Thy " Psalm of Life" still lives 
And to the weary gives 
Its heaven-taught blessed words ; 
In pure "Evangeline," 
The unsullied life is thine ; 
While from the " Wayside Inn," 
And "Village Blacksmith's" din, 
Thy fancy weaves such forms 
Of beauty and of grace, 
That, but to speak thy name. 
Sets all our hearts aflame, 
And chief of bards we place 
Our Longfellow ! 

The poet needs no monument 
In lasting bronze or stone ; 
So long as man shall live, 
His silver words alone 
Shall keep his memory green ! 
Yet, fitly, in his boyhood home. 
The old town by the sea. 
Beneath these arching elms. 
Where he so loved to be. 
His sculptured form we place ! 

And in the days and years to come. 
When men are asked to name 
Whom Portland honors first. 
Deserving poet's fame, 
All shall point hitherward ! 

— George E. B. Jackson. 



27 




THE EASTERN CEMETERY 

Our city guards, upon her eastern steep, 

The graveyard of her old, historic dead, 
Where seven generations came to sleep 

Near the tall pine whose shadows long have 
fled : 
The aged parson, shepherding his flock, 

The brave young warriors, slain in reckless 
pride. 
Stout captains, fallen in the battle's shock. 

There slumber, side by side ; 
And sailors bold, that cruise the deej) no more, 
Past the known headlands of this winding shore. 

— Abba Goold Woolson. 



2S 



MAINE GENERAL HOSPITAL 

( All Acrostic) 

May heaven protect our dear loved State, 
And may she stand supremely great ! 
In noble deeds let her delight, 
Nor strive but in the cause of right ! 
Each cry for succor may she hear. 
Grant that she bend the listening ear ! 
E' er let her children claim her care. 
Nor Sorrow speak to empty air ! 
Enduring though the Nations fall. 
Raising the weak and blessing all, 
As first she greets the morning sun. 
Let love keep bright till time be run ! 
Honor and fame shall wreathe her brow, 
On every hill glad Heralds now 
Sings songs of praise and every plam 
Prolongs the rapturous song o'er Mame. 
In sunlight first '' Dirigo" gleams. 
The mountains whisper to her streams. 
And over all in might and sway, 
Love tells her story all the day. 

— Moses Ozvcn. 




DEERING PARK 

A leafy home for whispering dryads made 

Remains their haunt, thouo-h murmurin"' streets 
are near 
Where Deering's Oaks, within their solemn shade, 

Preserve a hush, a spell, that kindles fear ; 
As if the bandits of good Robin Hood, 

Or playful fairies, trooped the paths at night. 
And only hid within the listening wood 

When wanderers came in sight : 
Yet rushing trains the sturdy branches shake, 
And children's laughter all the echoes wake. 

Beyond dividing waters, where a field 

Slopes to the mansion on its level brow, 
Sweet orchard-glades their stern traditions yield 

Of savage conflict centuries ago. 
And westward still, with fonder memories blent, 

A furzy pasture tells of strange delights : 
For there the circus held its tournament, 

And there, on gala nights. 
The fireworks' magic dazed our childish eyes, 
Shooting its splendors to the startled skies, 

— Abba Goold Woolson. 



31 



THE DEERING MANSION 

A little way removed from City street, 
The Deering House, — a welcome, cool retreat, — • 
Mid shady lawns, all gleaming white is seen, 
O'erlooking Deering' s woods and pastures green. 

Here Brackett's dw^elling stood, till one sad day 
Late summer saw move on their stealthy way 
From field to field, a cruel Indian band, 
Who swept, with blazing torch, across the land. 

In sweet security the mansion rests ; 
On swaying boughs the tuneful birds build nests, 
And here where history's page is soiled with stains 
Of Indian wrong, ring out their glad refrains. 

No hint of savage strife breaks on the air, 
But orchard slope and garden flowers fair 
And joyous carols breathe their peaceful charms 
To hearts untouched by fear or vague alarms. 

— Carrie Thompson Lowell. 



33 



RIVERTON PARK 

Kind Nature, when the mood inspires, 

Will scatter riches of her store 
From purple morn till sunset fires. 

And gem the twilight more and more. 

Behold this spot ! her lavish hand 

Has touched the wood, the stream, the sky, 
Till all the charms of fairy-land 

Enhance the hours which careless i^y. 

Throughout yon valley shines the stream ; 

Along its calm no ripple wakes ; 
Alive the shadowed branch doth seem 

Whereon the shadowed leaflet shakes. 

The over-arching green, which roots 
In grassy slope or steep descent, 

Lines either shore where alvvay flutes 
The bird his joy or his lament. 

These rustic paths fair Flora knows. 
These arbors found by every wind 

Which from the fragrant forest blows. 
Then, hastening, leaves the June behind. 

Beside this grove Presumpscot glides, 
This grove to pleasure dedicate ; 

Here Music pours melodic tides 

Whilst banished Care without doth wait. 

Long shall it wait ! Kind Nature's hand 
Touched all the wood, the stream, the sky, 

When first she planned this fairy-land 
Where burdenless the hours fly. 

— Edward Clarence Faryisworth. 



35 



WHITE HEAD 

Say what amid the stormy waves, 

Its hoary head majestic rears ; 
Which yet uninjur'd nobly braves 

The shock of tempests and of years? 

Dehi^'htful spot ! well known, I ween, 
To ev'ry son of pleasure near ; 

Thy lofty rocks who has not seen ? 
Thy lofty rocks who holds not dear? 

Have I not seen the painted skiff 
At anchor ride beneath thy brow ? 

While clouds of smoke around thy cliff 
Betray' d the gaietv below. 

There have I heard the merry tale, 

There pass'd the sparkling cup around ; 

While rock and forest, hill and dale, 
With notes of merriment resound. 

And can a soul so dead be found, 

Who ne'er has stray' d thy woods among 

Who took no pleasure in the sound 
Of echoes from the rocks that rung ? 

Ah, often from thy lofty steeps, 

With caution creeping from the wood. 

The fox perhaps by moonlight peeps, 
Below u|)on the rolling flood. 



37 



There I've surveyed the ocean blue, 
There gaz'd upon the jj^reen isles near, 

While countless sails would rise to view. 
And countless sails would disappear. 

'Twas silent, save when in his flight 
The crow his frequent clamors gave, 

Save when the hawk from loftv height 
Dashed headlong in the foaming wave. 

And there perhaps full many a pair 

In converse sweet ha\'e bent their way ; 

Have talked of love and prosjK'cts fair. 
Regardless of declining day. 

Perhaps, too, footsteps of desjxiir. 

This sweet retreat could frequent show, 

Who sought from agonizing care 
A refuge in the wave below. 

Delightful spot ! while life is mine 
I'll wander on thy sea-beat shore ; 

F^rom rock to rock still love to climb. 
And still thy shady wood explore. 

— Nathaniel Deering. 



38 




ON CAPE ELIZABETH 

Deep azure wrought with threads of golden sheen,— 
Silver-gray the interhning fair, — 
Earth's cloud-robe floats adown a sea of air. 
Rests the deep ocean tranquilly between 
Cliffs of dulse brown and isles of emerald green. 
Sere willows, pensi^•e, bow ; in x'esture rare 
Proud oaks attend the queenly maple ; there 
The pine reigns monarch of the sylvan scene. 
Yon skiffs, the ocean's white-robed children sleep, 

Nor toss in slumber in her fondling arms. 
Poised on the main, birds rest on southward flight. 
Peace hovers, pinions spread, o'er land and deep. 

Her wings soft zephyrs lulling hearts' alarms. 
So rests the Finite in the Infinite. 

— Margaret E, Jordan. 



39 



THE SPELL OF THE SHORE 

Ah ! to wake in the purple morning, 

Ere the golden stars grow dim ; — 
To hear from the wind-swept pine trees 

The breath of their morning hymn : 
To drink from the fragrant ocean 

Of the perfumed air above 
And to feel in the soft, cool darkness 

The touch of Almighty Love : — 
This — this is the spell that binds us 

To the golden shores of Maine 
And that hlls our hearts with longing 

When the summer comes again. 

To bathe in the sparkling waters, 

To lie on the wind-swept shore, 
Where the murmur of pines is mingled 

With the mighty ocean's roar ; 
To follow from some bare hill-top 

The curve of the rock-rimmed sea, 
With its island-dotted harbors. 

Where the breeze flows fair and free : — 
To bask in the golden sunshine. 

To roam on the ope n sea. 
This — this is the summer's glory, 

Ah, this is the life for me ! 

But when, with the cool Se])tember, 

The summer days have fled. 
And we turn once more to the city 

And the toil for our daily bread. 
How our pulses throb with power. 

And with eager heart and brain. 
We cry, with our farewell greeting : — 

' ' Thank God for the isles of Maine ! ' ' 

— Arthur D. Ropes. 



41 



SONGO RIVER 

Nowhere such a devious stream, 
Save in fancy or in dream, 
Winding slow through bush and brake 
Links together lake and lake. 

Walled with woods or sandy shelf. 
Ever doubling on itself 
Flows the stream, so still and slow 
That it hardly seems to flow. 

In the mirror of its tide 
Tangled thickets on each side 
Hang inverted, and between 
Floating cloud or sky serene. 

Swift or swallow on the wing 
Seems the only li\'ing thing. 
Or the loon, that laughs and flies 
Down to those reflected skies. 

Silent stream ! thy Indian name 
Unfamiliar is to fame ; 
For thou hidest here alone. 
Well content to be unknown. 

— Henry IV. Longfelloiv. 



43 



SEBAGO LAKE 

Around Sebago's lonely lake 
There lingers not a breeze to break 
The mirrors which its waters make. 

The solemn pines along its shore, 

The firs which hang its gray rocks o' er, 

Are painted on its glassy floor. 

The sun looks o' er with hazy eye 
The snowy mountain-tops which lie 
Piled coldly up against the sky. 

Dazzling and white ! save where the bleak 
Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, 
Or snow-slide left its dusky streak. 

Yet green are Saco's banks below. 
And belts of spruce and cedar show, 
Dark fringing round those cones of snow. 

The earth hath felt the breath of spring 
Though yet on her deliverer's wing 
The lingering frosts of winter cling. 

Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, 
And mildly from its sunny nooks 
The blue eye of the violet looks. 



45 



And odors from the springing grass, 
The sweet birch and the sassafras, 
Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. 

Her tokens of renewing care 
Hath Nature scattered everywhere 
In bud and flower, and warmer air. 

— John Grcenleaf Whittle r 



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